21. Chapter 21
Rosie
The princess watched the prince build a barn. There was ogling.
“What do you mean a barn raising?” Dean asks, coffee cup in hand, as we stand in the kitchen the next morning.
He made me pasta last night and left it in the fridge on a plate with my name written across the foil. I got home late, exhausted and starving after surviving on popcorn at the homecoming game, and I almost cried when I opened the refrigerator and saw it there.
A whole plate of pasta and sausage. For me.
And my name, written in Dean’s handwriting. I don’t think I’d ever seen his handwriting before, and for one ridiculous second I wanted to save the foil and put it in a scrapbook.
Except I don’t own a scrapbook.
“Yes, a barn raising,” I tell him. I look at my phone. “In an hour.”
He looks confused and rightfully so. I just dropped it on him in the middle of telling him about the game. Which we won in a completely insane finish.
“What exactly is a barn raising?” he asks.
“Exactly how it sounds. A bunch of people building a barn in a day, and then tonight we have a dance there.”
“Is this what you normally do during the festival?”
I shake my head. “Just this year. The one we used for community events burned down a while back. It’ll be good to have it back again, since we’ve been having to use the church instead.”
Which is how I ended up with a quilting circle in my front room and why I’m still finding random threads everywhere. At this point, I think it might be reproducing.
“Interesting,” he says.
“Do you . . . want to go?” I haven’t asked him to come to anything for the festival because he’s been busy with the farm, and I wouldn’t have been able to properly show him around since I’ve been going nonstop all day, every day.
Now that the activities are done and most of the booths are down, this is the first time I’ve been able to take a full breath all week.
“I think I have to,” Dean says. “I’ve never been to a barn raising.”
“And you may never get another chance,” I say.
Because, really, how often do people have a barn raising anymore? I mean, besides the Amish.
“Do you have farm stuff you need to do today?” I ask.
“No. I’m done there,” he says. “They’ll be cleaning it out on Monday.”
And then he leaves Tuesday. I’m going to ignore the tightening thing I just felt inside my chest.
“Okay, then let’s go raise a barn,” I tell him.
By the time we get there at eight, the place is already buzzing.
Trucks line the road—Dom’s old orange-red truck among them—and framed walls lie flat on the concrete slab, waiting to be raised.
Dew glistens on the changing leaves, and everything smells like fresh-cut wood and coffee.
Someone’s running a saw, people are hauling lumber everywhere, and some brilliant person made sure there were donuts.
I wave at Bennett Walker, who’s been put in charge of the event.
“Hey, Bennett,” I say, walking over to him, Dean following behind me.
“Hi, Rosie,” he says. He’s in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt, a baseball cap pulled over his dark hair. Apparently, jeans and long sleeves are the unofficial barn-raising uniform. Dean just skipped the hat.
I introduce him to Dean.
“Bennett built my check-in desk,” I tell Dean.
“Nice work,” Dean says, shaking his hand.
“Thanks,” Bennett says. “I heard my brother Luke was able to get rid of your raccoon problem.”
“He did,” Dean says. “Still not sure how he did it.”
Bennett shakes his head. “Best not to know.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” Dean responds.
“You come to help today?” Bennett asks.
Dean nods. “Put me to work.”
I leave them to it, but as I’m walking away, Dean calls out to me.
“Where are you going?”
I turn to face him as I walk slowly backward, giving him a big cheesy smile. “I’m just going to sit over here and watch,” I say, pointing toward the donut table where Emma and some others are gathered.
He shakes his head at me, but he’s smiling.
I could help, but to be honest, I’m a little tired of any type of construction. Even if installing walls looks a lot easier than tiling around a bathtub.
Also, I’ve been up before six every day this week, and I’ve got the beginnings of a headache. I’m not sure I could get a two-by-four over my head right now, let alone a wall.
So, I go stand by the donuts, where I will be extremely useful.
Over the next few hours, I watch Dean work as I sit with the other onlookers, eating baked goods and gossiping.
He’s got sawdust in his dark hair, and he keeps shoving his sleeves up his forearms, only for them to slide right back down.
It’s hard to look away.
“Rosie, dear,” Edna B. calls out. “That’s the fourth time you’ve looked in that man’s direction since we sat down. I’ve been counting.”
I look over at her and Edna G., both sitting in lawn chairs like a couple of armchair quarterbacks. They’ve spent the morning yelling instructions at the volunteers and pointing out everything they’re doing wrong, while the volunteers do an impressive job of ignoring them.
“He keeps looking at you, too, you know,” says Edna G.
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb.
“Don’t play stupid with us, girl,” Edna B. says. “That man’s been giving you the same googly eyes you’ve been giving him all morning.”
I feel heat creep into my cheeks. Dean would never make googly eyes at anyone. But we’ve caught each other looking more than once. And if he’s been looking for me when I haven’t noticed? That’s even better.
“You should tell him to stay around,” Edna G. says. “He’s already got property. He should just move here.”
Right. Because that’s an easy thing to do. Hey, Dean, want to rearrange your entire life for a woman with five princess-themed bedrooms and questionable business instincts?
“Have you guys heard that Mayor Monroe might be dating someone?” I say, changing the subject.
Edna B. gives Edna G. a look before turning it on me. “We’ve known about that for weeks.”
“Who do you think it is?”
They both settle back into their chairs, preparing for what will probably be a full timeline with receipts.
The best way to get an Edna off one track is to change it to another.
Too bad the same trick doesn’t work when I’m trying not to think about Dean.
Just after four in the afternoon, the barn is done. Well, the shell of it, at least. The inside still needs to be finished before it can officially become the community center, but for tonight, we’ll bring in generators, string up some lights, and turn the cement pad into a dance floor.
Everyone stands back and stares at their work. It’s massive—bigger than I expected, with tall wooden walls, huge beams stretching across the inside, and stained dark wood that looks almost too pretty for something that was built in a day.
I find Dean smiling as he pats a few of the other volunteers on the back, everyone congratulating each other.
We head back to the inn afterward; Dean is tired, and the headache I had this morning still lingers.
“So, I have to be at the dance tonight,” I tell him as we walk side by side down Main Street.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“It’s part of my festival duties,” I say, giving him jazz hands and then feeling stupid about it.
In truth, I could probably skip the dance part. I don’t think anyone would notice if I weren’t there. I’m not emceeing or anything, thank goodness.
But I kind of want to go. It’s the end of the week, the last activity of the festival. We built a barn in a day, and now we get to dance inside it tonight. Well, I didn’t actually build the barn. I mostly cheered from the sidelines. But still, there’s something sort of magical about it.
And if I’m being honest with myself, I want Dean to be there.
Dean makes a humming sound in response.
Not exactly the I would love to come with you response I was hoping for.
Although . . . I guess I didn’t really ask him.
“You could come if you want,” I say. “You helped build the barn, after all.”
He looks over at me, meeting my gaze as we walk. “Should I?” he asks.
“If you’re up for it,” I say. “I’m sure you’re tired. I am, too. It’s been a long week, and we’ve both had a lot going on. And you just built a barn. We’ve never done a dance before—it could be dumb—”
“Rosie,” he says, stopping in his tracks and cutting off my ramble. “I’ll come.”
I give him a grin. It’s not what I want to do. I want to grab him and kiss him again like I did when he told me he was staying and taking the Snow White room.
I shouldn’t have done that; I knew it even as I was doing it. But I couldn’t help myself. I know better than to do it right now. Even if I hate it.
I look in the mirror again, possibly for the hundredth time, and feel silly.
Actually, I feel pretty. But also a little ridiculous.
A dance in a barn did not call for my normal attire of overalls—actually, that’s kind of exactly what I should be wearing to a dance in a barn. But I didn’t want to.
I’m sick of overalls.
So, I curled my hair in big soft waves and put on some makeup. More than my usual amount, but only a little extra because I still want to look like me.
Then I put on a dress. And then a different one. Then I tried a skirt-and-shirt combo. I hated that, so I put the first dress back on. Rinse and repeat.
This went on for over an hour, and I only had two hours to get ready.
Why is this so hard? I haven’t had a reason to dress up in a long time. I go to church with my family, and I try not to look like a slob when I do. But tonight is different.
I want to look pretty. I want to feel pretty. And I hate how self-conscious that makes me.
I’ve got the moths of ick flying around in my stomach.
I keep picturing myself walking into the front entry and finding Dean there, and then him seeing me all dressed up. I can pretend it’s for the dance, but . . . I know exactly who I’m dressing up for.
So I hope the deep-green midi dress with the square neckline, puff sleeves, and a skirt that moves when I walk does the trick.
Because that’s what I’m sticking with.
The decision is final.
It’s not sexy. It’s not formal. Those were things that Rosaline used to wear, and I was never that girl.